


Insolent Brat

by Goldmonger



Category: The Umbrella Academy (TV)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Gen, Kniiiiives, Physical Abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-23
Updated: 2019-02-23
Packaged: 2019-11-04 02:00:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 979
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17889413
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Goldmonger/pseuds/Goldmonger
Summary: A literal pain in the neck.





	Insolent Brat

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for the comments guys! This is intended as more stream-of-consciousness than strictly traditional storytelling. I pictured it as a series of visual memories that would flash through Diego's mind whenever recalling people he loves.
> 
> It's an experimental form for me, so I understand if it's not your thing!
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> ***

Bullseye, bullseye, bullseye.

Faster, so he did.

Two at once, so he did three.

Is that it, boy?

One pierced the lining of his musty velvet dinner jacket. The balance of it was perfect. He’d been aiming for the excess of fabric by his shoulder, even if no one believed him.

 

*

 

Look at me.

Diego looked at him. Sir Hargreeves slapped him across the face, once. It was so fast he barely felt any pain.

I will not have you disobeying me in this house.

Then I’ll go to another house.

The second slap reverberated around the foyer, seemed to shake the chandelier. He could see his brothers and sister barely visible by the parlour doors, poking their heads out. His mother stood by the staircase, swaying slightly.

His cheeks burned with shame and the impact of the flat of the old man’s palm.

Nowhere else would have you, Hargreeves hissed. You are abominations to them. They would look at you like laboratory experiments gone wrong, pests to be exterminated.

They could try, he had snarled back, clutching the handle of the last knife in his belt with enough force that his hand was cramping.

Little fool, said Hargreeves, and held out his hand, unnaturally smooth for a man of his age. His own hands were rough with calluses and even now swollen with blisters; anything less than splitting the figurative arrow in practice got him twice the hours the next day.

He placed the knife he’d been gripping into Hargreeves’ hand, now wearing an empty bandolier over his uniform. Like he’d been playing at being a killer.

Next time I expect you to aim for the head the first time I tell you.

Hargreeves swept past him coldly, holding the knife by his thumb and forefinger like he expected it to bite him. He beckoned to Grace, who followed in his wake with a vacantly concerned expression. Vanya and Five had gone away already, but Ben was still just inside the parlour. He rubbed at the corner of his mouth slightly, so Diego did the same. A trickle of red melted into the sleeve of his blazer.

 

*

I have him, called Luther from across the museum. He ostensibly did. The slippery ringleader of the infamous Giuseppe Arcimboldo art heists of the past year was writhing in his grasp, spitting obscenities; his cohorts lay in heaps around the gallery.

And it felt wrong.

I’m checking the back, he said to Luther, who had dropped his now trussed and gagged burglar at his feet, and was saying something that was apparently incredibly funny to Allison.

There are only twelve of them, he said, a little louder. He was sure there were more. He glanced at Klaus, who had lit a cigarette and was analysing an armless statue by the emergency exits.

I’ll check the back, he repeated irritably, and walked straight into the barrel of a gun.

He did dodge it in time, his ears ringing horribly, but the surprise left him scrambled. His knife had barely sunk an inch into the man’s side before he caught a swift punch to the jaw that sent him sprawling.

When he got up, Klaus had wandered even further away, and Luther was holding the assailant by the throat, Allison whispering something to his slackening face.

When the heavyset man hit the floor with his companions, Diego got up.

I said there were more.

Really? I didn’t hear you.

Luther had always been gormless, but that rubbed him the wrong way.

You should have listened to me. What if he’d had another few friends with him?

We missed one, said Allison. And we got him. Chill out, Diego.

Shut up, _Number Three_ , he snapped, because Allison sneering at him had been getting a little too common for his liking. At his clothes, his language, his everything. He was about to hand out something a bit more choice when he received a blow to his chest that laid him out for the second time in as many minutes.

Calm down, said Luther, looming over him with a trace of guilt in the twist to his mouth. We’re a team, Diego. Don’t talk to her like that.

He leapt up, seething, and Hargreeves’ voice crackled over the walkie-talkie strapped to Luther’s belt.

Finished in there? Hurry up and get out. You should have contained that scum two point seven minutes ago. Number One, I’ll be writing this up.

Luther winced, turning to Allison. We should go, he said, ignoring Diego completely. He’s already in a bad mood.

Diego thought about starting something, even as the two of them drew away, retrieving guns and tightening restraints. Klaus appeared like a spectre from his left and hooked his arm through his.

Someone wants their 4.5 million Arcimboldo back, even with six bullet holes in their skull, he said languidly, coughing smoke. Pretty dumb of them.

I know that, Klaus said to empty air, swatting at nothing. Diego sighed, leading him from the room.

 

*

 

How do you curve the knives?

They go where I want them to go, he’d said to her, flipping one of them up in the air and catching it by the blade. It split the skin, because he was nervous.

So you control them with your mind?

Not much thought goes into it, he’d confessed, twirling the blade again, mostly to see the reluctant but persistent spark of curiosity in her eyes.

Remote control knives, she’d said with a small smile, and he’d smiled back automatically.

Well dang, you got me, he said, throwing up his arms in a passion. I fly them. Like drones.

Eudora took his hand and removed the knife from his grip, swiping away with her thumb the beads of blood he’d allowed to flow freely.

Guns are more reliable, she’d said. Her shirt then was starkly white, spotless.

 

*

 


End file.
